


not heaven, nor hell

by tendresettroubles



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, descriptions of enjolras' and grantaire's lives growing up, ends up fluffy, listen i love them more than it's reasonable to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:06:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25569454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tendresettroubles/pseuds/tendresettroubles
Summary: Grantaire wakes up to the empty backroom of the Musain - and that's fairly in character, for him. Enjolras' jacket on his shoulders, however, is not usual.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 83





	not heaven, nor hell

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so very much to the wonderful [Gala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostARealHobbit/pseuds/les%20Amis%20DCD) and [Jett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicpiano) for beta'ing this, i owe u my life.

  
The sound of a slamming door pulls Grantaire out of his slumber and, as his mind struggles to shake off the lingering torpor, he notices two things. 

The first is rather usual; the deserted room around him, with nothing but chairs abandoned in a pattern so familiar that Grantaire can tell exactly who sat where, even though he, ever true to his habits, had fallen asleep long before all of Les Amis arrived. 

He can see Courfeyrac, sitting astride his chair, arms resting casually on the backrest; he sees Jehan, listening intently in a corner, his head full of unspoken words; he sees Joly and Bossuet, whispering about god-knows-what with conspiratorial smiles on their faces, jabbing elbows at each other’s ribs. Grantaire sometimes catches himself envying them; not because he wishes he took part in their hushed conversations, but rather because he’s never had anything quite like that. None of those knowing glances and smirks, none of that instant, wordless understanding from across the room; those aren't things he’s ever been familiar with. 

There’s an oil lamp burning by his side, likely a reluctant kindness from Madame Hucheloup; as far as Grantaire can tell, she either sees him often enough to trust him not to steal from her, or she simply doesn’t believe him intellectually capable of such a venture. Either way, the steady flame bathes him in a soft golden glow, a welcome light despite it being proof of the lateness of the hour. It doesn’t really matter, though. Grantaire has nowhere else to be, and maybe that’s exactly why he favours falling asleep during meetings over drifting off in his own bed. Maybe he feels safer surrounded by people, people who talk, who discuss, even people who cast disapproving glances towards his sleeping form. However disdainful they might be, those are preferable to the walls’ cold stares in the room he calls home. 

The second thing is an unfamiliar weight upon his shoulders, probably a coat left there by one of Les Amis. Knowing them, it was either Feuilly or Joly; where the former would have done it out of graciousness, the latter would have definitely acted out of concern. Grantaire maintains rather good relationships with all of them, despite most of them not really knowing what his presence brings to the table. Even in the Musain’s backroom, he remains more of a faithful client than an involved member, but they’ve all made their peace with that, or so it seems; even Enjolras has stopped startling him awake in favour of disappointed sighs.

He remembers meeting Enjolras for the first time. Granted, it had been more of a “seeing Enjolras for the first time,” because if one thing was sure, it was that Enjolras had not looked back. 

It had been a warm morning in early summer 1827, one of those days that demanded a cold drink, preferably alcoholic, and Grantaire wasn’t known to resist indulgence of any kind. The Place Saint-Michel was particularly crowded as he crossed it to reach his customary café, but he didn’t pay it any mind; assemblies on the Saint-Michel cobblestones weren’t quite as intense as the ones that took place at Place du Château-d’Eau, but they were just as frequent, and often of the same nature. Back then, people already spoke left and right of a kingless France. Only Grantaire, ever unconvinced, had kept his distance. Nonetheless, he let his gaze wander among the crowd in detached interest, a half-hearted attempt at determining the purpose of this specific gathering; whether they wanted the right to vote or to see the king’s head in a basket. Or perhaps they wanted both. It was a game he often played with himself, to fill the boredom that commonly found its way into his mind, figuring out what other people were thinking. What they longed for, what they believed in. He had gotten rather good at it, too.

The majority of attendees were men, with but a few women in their midst, all clad in various shades of dark fabric. If more had worn colourful clothes, Grantaire’s life would have stayed just as it had been, ruled by a comfortable routine and strangers warming his bed every once in a while, but fate made it so that the crowd was a sea of greys, dark greens and blacks that day. This made it so much easier for the eye to be almost forcibly drawn towards the sole touch of colour in the scene, a bold shade of red that graciously lent itself to a man’s jacket. The man in red stood taller than the rest, feet steady on some chair or stack of bricks invisible to Grantaire’s eye. From a distance, the only other striking thing about him was his crown of blonde locks, the sort of colour more commonly seen in children’s hair, one that grows dark as the years go by and purity is lost. 

Truthfully, the only reason Grantaire had originally approached was out of curiosity as to the blonde man’s looks; to find out whether he was as handsome up close as he seemed from afar. Of course, nothing about him up close had been disappointing at all. His features, which from a distance suggested boyish charm, revealed themselves to tend more toward angelic beauty as Grantaire drew nearer. He could finally hear his voice, high and clear, a steady yet compelling tone as he spoke of equality, of democracy, of rights for everybody. Eyes were glued to him, and while half of them were captivated by the subject itself, the other half stared in awe of him. 

Another man stood by the pile of bricks, an affable smile on his lips as he handed out tracts, leaving a word of thanks to whoever accepted the leaflet. If the thinning stack in his hand was anything to go by, he was excellent at his job — and yet, something told Grantaire that the dwindling amount of tracts left wasn’t solely due to the man’s charisma. Groups like these tended to be small, and it was likely they didn’t have enough staff to make an adequate amount of pamphlets. He turned his gaze back to the man in red. 

Grantaire had never seen someone quite that beautiful; he had met his share of renowned belles and alluring Adonises over the years, but the combination of looks and passion made this particular man seem unreal. The midday sun shining down on his curls lent him a golden halo, as though his crusade had been blessed by whatever deity resided within the clouds. Grantaire didn’t have the strength to approach holiness that day, much less speak to it, and so he continued on his way, glancing over his shoulder every once in a while until he reached the café and dazedly crossed its doors. This had been the first day, but their first encounter had yet to happen. Grantaire didn’t have a name for the fiery young man, only a face to dream of and a hatful of unspeakable things that he would like to do to him. 

The next day, the red jacket and the good-natured smile were there once more, the former having lost none of his passion and the latter, none of his manners. It was somewhat easier to walk up to the smile on that second day, to nod and be handed the leaflet. The man’s eyes glided over him before moving on to the next person. He seemed wearier than the day before. 

The third day, Grantaire wasn’t alone. 

“There’s a crowd in Saint-Michel,” he said as they walked towards it, almost as a warning. “It’s been going on for at least three days, but I’m still not sure what it is they want.” 

Bossuet’s eyebrows shot up in interest. He had been complaining about the lack of life and of entertainment ever since his exams had ended. Anywhere where people gathered was good enough for him, no matter the reason. 

“Hey, we know him,” Joly said as they reached the end of the street and the Place came into view, pointing toward the red-jacketed man. Grantaire wondered briefly whether Joly was naturally observant or if his own staring had been so obvious that it could be followed like Ariadne’s string.

“You do?” 

Bossuet nodded. “Yeah. He and a couple others were in front of the Sorbonne a few months back. They want to overthrow the king.” 

“Monarchy,” Joly corrected. “You’re the lawyer, you should be using the correct terms.” 

“Lawyer-to-be,” Bossuet said, “There’s still time and many ways for it to go wrong, if I’m lucky.” He pointed his chin toward the general direction of the men. “We should see if they want to take a break from being politically involved and have a beer instead. I remember they were quite a pleasant bunch.” 

Joly hummed in agreement, which was all Bossuet needed to start making his way through the crowd, breaking a path with his hands held up in front of him. 

Joly followed, Grantaire on their heels. 

“You never told me about them.” 

“We did,” Joly said, dodging a stray elbow from a guy who was raising an enthusiastic fist in agreement.

“You were drunk,” Bossuet added as he glanced back at his friends, raising his voice in order to be heard over the hubbub of the crowd. “And you said you had better things to do than get bullied by the National Guard.” 

“I meant that,” Grantaire said, and even though he couldn’t recall that particular exchange, his opinion was unchanged. “All these people are just on their way to getting butchered, and you don’t get to enjoy the simple pleasures of life if you’re hanging off the wrong end of a bayonet.” 

“Simple pleasures? You mean getting outrageously drunk,” Joly glanced over his shoulder, and Grantaire could see the slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Solid logic.” 

“I do mean getting absolutely, utterly and unashamedly cockeyed, yes,” he agreed. “Although I do like someone to wake up next to, as well.” It was getting difficult to ignore the fact that they were getting closer and closer to the centre of the crowd, and Grantaire found himself wishing he had dropped by the café for a couple of drinks beforehand. 

“Bossuet!” The man distributing the tracts immediately recognised Grantaire’s friend. “And Joly, right? I remember you!” Finally, he turned to Grantaire, and it was clear in his eyes that the statement didn’t apply to him. “And you are…?” 

“Grantaire,” he said with a firm nod, leaning forward to shake his hand, as it was custom to. The weariness of the previous day was gone, likely because it was still rather early. 

“Combeferre,” the man answered. “This is Enjolras.” He gestured to his companion, who hadn’t yet noticed their presence. He stood taller than the rest of them, looking out at the crowd and completely unaware of the newcomers at his feet. Combeferre pointed to a more deserted area of the place. “And that, over there, is Courfeyrac.” 

Grantaire turned accordingly, partly in curiosity, partly because he could feel the knot in his stomach from the imminence of his meeting _him_ — Enjolras, the blonde, defiant angel whose name was no longer a mystery. Grantaire wasn’t known to be a brave man, and if he could put the encounter off for just a little while longer, he would. 

Courfeyrac was easy to spot if you knew where to look. He was laughing, flanked with three ladies, clearly needing no help in charming them. He had a head of brown hair, a dark blue redingote and a posture which radiated self-confidence from miles away. 

“He’s supposed to help us in our endeavours, but he mostly helps himself with his own these days,” Combeferre mused. “Not that I’d hold that against him. The people are difficult to convince, and sometimes it feels like a fight we’ll never win. Don’t tell him that,” he added hastily as Enjolras, having finally noticed them, hopped off his pedestal. 

“I’m Enjolras,” he said, shaking their hands in turn. Joly gave him a solemn nod, and Bossuet smiled. Enjolras looked Grantaire in the eye as they exchanged a handshake. “I trust you’ve come to join us?”

His eyes were a clear shade of blue and bore an unsettling steadiness, as though they could see right through Grantaire. 

“Actually, we came to inquire as to whether a drink would be welcome,” Bossuet said, unknowingly snapping Grantaire out of his trance. “Like last time.” 

“A drink?” A voice came from behind them before either of them could answer, and Grantaire recognised the wooer, who wore a smile as wide as his face: it was Courfeyrac. He had abandoned the ladies and walked up to their group, attracted by the newcomers. He threw his arms open and rested them on Grantaire and Bossuet’s shoulders as if they were old friends. “I would love a drink. Days are getting hotter and hotter round here, and I don’t like that one bit.” 

The hint of a smile appeared on Combeferre’s face, and he turned to Enjolras, who didn’t seem much convinced by it. 

“We need to give it a break, Enjolras,” he said, “it’s been almost a week, and there are less and less people showing up every day.” 

“The ones that are still here are here for your face, not your beliefs,” Courfeyrac added, which made a smile tug at the corner of Grantaire’s mouth. Enjolras waved it away with an irritated movement of his hand, but it was clear that these antics were well-known to him. 

“They’re your beliefs, too,” he said, casting Courfeyrac a disapproving look. “But Combeferre is right. Pressing on for too long causes disinterest.”

Combeferre nodded. “We don’t want that.”   
  
They had drank that night, only Grantaire less than usual. Neither Joly nor Bossuet pointed it out, both far too busy with their new acquaintances to notice that his third glass, which was usually emptied in the blink of an eye, remained full for most of the evening. He was troubled, and he watched, too. Looking at Enjolras from across the room, taking in his natural movements for the first time, it was clear that the ones from the Place Saint-Michel were carefully calculated, a show aiming to convince people, to rally them to the cause that he held so dear. The ones from that night hadn’t been. That night, for the first time, he saw Enjolras as less of an angel and more of a man. And that realisation had made him all the more beautiful. 

_I’m going to join them_ , he still remembers thinking as he watched a drunk, giggling Courfeyrac do his best to stand on a wobbly chair and Bossuet, at about the same level of inebriety, wheezing from laughter as he leaned against the counter. Joly, who always got quieter the more alcohol was in his system, was listening to Enjolras speak. Grantaire couldn’t make out what it was he was saying; it didn’t matter. _I’m going to join him_ , he thought. _I’ll sit and listen for the rest of my life if it means I get to see him like this, every day._

So far, every part of that plan has worked out. 

It started with meetings, times and places carefully selected by Combeferre. They first rotated between a few spots, finally settling for the Musain, for it had a back room and a landlady who tolerated antics of the rowdiest kind. It turned out that there were others, too: Feuilly, a shock of red hair, countless freckles and a kind temperament; Jehan Prouvaire, a romantic’s soul with a delicate face and a penchant for rhyming couplets; and finally, Bahorel, who was the proud proprietor of a deep belly laugh, a glorious moustache and an unabashed inclination for provocation. Not two of these misfits were the same, but what they all had in common was a firm belief that change was not only necessary, but imperative. This conviction manifested itself in various forms depending on the person; if you asked Jehan, he would speak of equality and human rights with a quiet passion. For Bahorel, it was clear that the monarchy wasn’t leading anywhere, and that both France and its king were better off headless. 

Les Amis de l’ABC, as they started calling themselves, turned out to be more of a family than any Grantaire had ever known. From the weekly gatherings to the late night excursions in the streets of Paris, he grew close with them, sharing laughs over pails of beer with Bahorel and Courfeyrac, listening to Jehan and Combeferre as they discussed stars and rhyme schemes, walking home with Feuilly, his cheeks flushed by the cold, Grantaire’s by the wine. 

⁂

The jacket slides off Grantaire’s shoulders as he pushes himself up from his original position, unceremoniously slumped over the table. Leaning down drowsily, he brings the bundle of cloth up to the lamp and recognises it immediately. It is unmistakeable, so often imbued with fire and passionate speeches that the colour has become synonymous to its owner’s name. The crimson looks almost orange in the trembling light, but Grantaire knows — this is the jacket Enjolras wears, the one that brands him as leader, revolution weaved into the fabric. 

That jacket, that someone draped over Grantaire’s sleeping shoulders. He contemplates the garment, running his thumb over the collar, tracing the metallic buttons down the hem. He thinks back to when he caught sight of it for the first time and realises that the last five years of his life would’ve been vastly different, had the colour been a few shades darker, had Enjolras’ passion burned a few degrees colder. How Grantaire’s heart would have remained emptier than he could bear, even if he hadn’t known it back then. 

He watches Enjolras, still, to see the fire in his eyes as he speaks. Over the years, the words have turned from convincing crowds to inciting action, and now Les Amis find themselves planning for physical confrontation. Grantaire knows they aren’t the only ones; there is a buzzing through Paris, driving students and workmen alike. He also knows — a little too well, perhaps — that there aren’t enough of them at all. 

It’s well-known among Les Amis that Enjolras is often the last to leave, staying behind to pore over documents and to think about the best courses of action to take. He’s often tired, too, although he would never admit it; in his mind, leaders must be fearless, tireless, and entirely devoted to their cause. To Grantaire, this means they mustn’t be human, but Enjolras seems to overlook that, striving to be more than his body can bear. 

The slamming door was him, of course, and the realisation has Grantaire springing from his chair and dashing through the door with newfound energy, helpfully provided by his recent snooze. His heart hammers in his chest but, thankfully, he knows which way Enjolras usually goes. Left down rue d’Enfer, then third street on the right, but that is where his knowledge stops. So he hurries.

Night is falling on the Place Saint-Michel as Grantaire steps onto its unusually empty cobblestones. It’s much easier to spot Enjolras’ figure, one that is so familiar Grantaire knows he could pick it out of a lineup of silhouettes without so much as a second glance.

Grantaire’s brisk footsteps ring out on the pavement and come to a sudden stop when he realises Enjolras has taken a right turn, heading straight into the Jardin du Luxembourg. He doesn’t stop to ask himself why, though, why the detour at this hour of the evening, when all the Jardin has to offer are darkened alleyways and abandoned kiosks. 

“Enjolras!” he calls out, but the name is either ignored or not loud enough to have been heard. Grantaire picks up the pace, reaching the entrance of the park, then gives it another try. 

“Gabriel!” 

Speaking his first name out loud feels like saying a forbidden word, a word reserved for pious men and intimate friends; neither of which could qualify Grantaire, and he knows this. This time, perhaps out of sheer outrage for the blasphemy, Enjolras’ figure stills and turns around. His given name, an archangel’s name, is seldom used in their circle; it is, however, a very effective way of getting his attention, likely because of the scarceness of its use. Finding out he bore a saintly name had made Grantaire feel as though he had been right all along — his instincts do not lie; there is something holy about Enjolras. Sometimes, he thinks he sees a halo behind his golden head, but as far as he can tell, it’s always been an illusion created by the combination of inebriety and a conveniently placed candle.

There isn’t any alcohol in Grantaire’s system now, though; he can feel the evening chill through the light fabric of his shirt and the slight breeze on his cheeks as he hurries across the roundabout to reach the Jardin’s entrance, the jacket draped over his left arm.

He’s a little out of breath when he reaches Enjolras. 

“You left your jacket,” he says as he holds the garment out and takes a deep breath, a vain attempt at lowering his heart rate. He can hear the erratic thumping in his ears, and Enjolras’ eyes are unreadable as Grantaire levels his gaze with his. 

“I thought you’d be cold,” is the only answer Enjolras gives as he swiftly slips the jacket on, leaving Grantaire with nothing but a waistcoat, a thin shirt and a looming confusion. Although it has always been clear that Enjolras cares about each and everyone of them an appropriate amount, the dedication he has shown to his peers has always been just that — appropriate. Draping a coat over someone’s sleeping shoulders in fear of them getting cold is so much more than appropriate, it almost feels unnerving, coming from him. Grantaire doesn’t ask, though; instead, he silently thanks himself for having woken up just in time to run after Enjolras. Returning the coat the next day in the Musain would have attracted many questions from Les Amis, none of which Grantaire would have had answers to.

“You’re not mad I fell asleep during the meeting,” he remarks instead, even if it isn’t difficult to guess why; awake, Grantaire intervenes far more than Enjolras deems necessary, and irritates him to no end. Of course, for Grantaire, there is wicked pleasure to be found in the endeavour. 

Enjolras shrugs, distractedly adjusting the sleeve buttons as he confirms Grantaire’s suspicions. “I’m used to it. At least you don’t snore like Bahorel does.” 

That draws a low chuckle from Grantaire; Bahorel doesn’t fall asleep often, but when he does, everyone is acutely aware of every minute he spends in Morpheus’ arms. There isn’t any waking him, either, and it isn’t from lack of trying. Grantaire himself has been startled awake by the low but persistent rumble of a sleeping Bahorel; he’s also pretty sure Jehan has once written a whole sonnet about the experience of witnessing the feat. 

Grantaire looks into the Jardin, unused to seeing it at nightfall. Children typically run around the gravelly paths as their parents follow half-heartedly, the women often shielded from the midday sun by a delicate parasol. It’s a rather peaceful sight by day, but now that the sun has elected to retire for a few hours, the Jardin du Luxembourg is almost out of this world, the alleyways dark save for the intermittent patches of moonlight when the clouds deign part. The overlooking Médicis mansion casts a wide shadow over half of the park, the large structure somehow seeming more imposing in the dark than in the light of day.

“You know, they put goat carts here now,” Grantaire says, suddenly remembering seeing kids on the back of the miniature carriages and how amused he had been at that sight. He takes a few steps into the Jardin, surveying the darkening surroundings to find a potential structure. “I wonder if they keep them around at night.” 

“The carts? Yeah, they’re probably in a hangar somewhere nearby,” Enjolras says, following in Grantaire’s footsteps, acutely aware of every movement he’s making. By the tone of his voice, he can tell there’s something mischievous going on in Grantaire’s mind — much like the falling asleep, he’s used to it —, but he prefers not to say anything, in case it gives him any ideas he originally hadn't thought of. 

“Oh, no, I meant the goats,” Grantaire specifies as he spots something that looks much like a goat house, nestled snugly in the shadow of the low trees lining the fences of the park. “There!” he exclaims, starting towards it faster than Enjolras has time to ask him what he plans on doing. At this time of the evening, it can’t be anything good. 

“I only need to know one thing,” he says, picking up the pace to keep up with Grantaire’s unusually determined strides. “It’s that we won’t have a goat thief among us by the end of this.” 

They reach the goat house, its door closed by a simple outward latch. Grantaire examines it briefly, then looks back up at Enjolras, his face serious. 

“Know that I would never, ever bring shame on Les Amis like this,” he says with exaggerated gravity as he carefully unlatches the door, opening it wide enough for the growing moonlight to filter into the structure. Enjolras holds his portfolio tight against his chest and gives in to his own curiosity, leaning forward to peek over Grantaire’s shoulder. Four shapes are huddled in a corner of the small space. 

“God, it stinks,” Enjolras says, recoiling. “What are you going to do with them?” 

“Yeah, they pee right where they sleep.” Grantaire looks at the animals in wonder as his eyes get used to the darkness of the interior. “Look, they’re awake,” he adds in a low voice as one of the four oblong shapes rises, producing two pairs of legs, and starts moving towards them. Enjolras’ question as to his intentions remains woefully unanswered. Grantaire crouches down and extends a hand into the goat house, making various sounds in an effort to attract the animal.

“Aren’t they going to attack us?” Enjolras asks, his voice tinged with the slightest bit of worry. “I’ve heard goats can be aggressive.” 

Grantaire looks back up at him. “These goats get to be around children all day,” he says, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Fearless leader, frightened by goats. “They’re more likely to chew on your clothes or your hair than they are to attack you.” 

Enjolras’ hand flies to his hair instinctively, as though he already can feel the animal’s teeth on his golden locks. His face, however, shows no panic or horror, which only makes the gesture more comical; Enjolras is good at concealing his feelings when it comes to his facial features, but most of the time, something else betrays him. A movement, a word. Grantaire, who has become quite the expert at figuring out exactly what Enjolras is thinking, lets his smile turn into a chuckle as he turns his attention back to the goat. It is now standing by the door, indulging in a few well-placed head scratches from Grantaire. 

Grantaire knows Enjolras hasn’t grown up with livestock despite living _near_ them — his childhood, which he rarely speaks about, had consisted of private tutors and trips to the City three times a year rather than running after stray sheep and helping mares foal. Grantaire isn’t surprised by the wariness he exhibits, because despite his lack of experience with animals, Enjolras isn’t wrong; goats can be terribly aggressive, and Grantaire has had his share of bruises to know it. Nevertheless, he’s sure these particular ones are unlikely to cause any harm. 

“See?” He looks up, satisfied with how successful his interaction with the animal went. “The only scratches here are the ones I’m giving—“ he trails off before he can finish, telltale sign of the appearance of either a nightwatchman or a new idea. Unfortunately for Enjolras, it turns out to be the latter. “Hey, you should name her.” 

“What?” 

Grantaire gestures to the goat, who is now staring at Enjolras with unnerving intensity in spite of the lack of light. “Name the goat.” 

“I’m not going to name the goat, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, the back of his mind already actively thinking of a name. He knows Grantaire will get one out of him eventually, and besides, he can’t leave him alone in the Jardin du Luxembourg at night, with goats to boot. That would be unworthy of a leader. “Georgette,” he concedes, chewing on his lip. “Name the damn thing Georgette.” 

“I’m sure Georgette would appreciate it if you didn’t call her a _thing_ ,” Grantaire says, standing back up and summarily dusting his pants off. He looks back at Enjolras. Were it a little less dark, the twinkle in his eye would be unmissable. “And I really hope you won’t be the one naming your children, because that name is mediocre at best.” 

“That was my great-grandmother’s name,” Enjolras protests. “And I don’t have plans for children anytime soon. Or a wife, for that matter,” he goes on, glancing at Grantaire. “Don’t tell my mother that.” 

Grantaire huffs. He hadn’t expected a follow up comment to his statement. Enjolras doesn’t typically talk about his family, or the expectations they have of him; it’s easy enough to forget those, sometimes, being so far away from the family home. Grantaire thinks of his own parents, and how he hasn’t written them in months. He still can’t tell if they really care. “I’ll make sure to avoid that topic when I meet her, then.” 

He doesn’t tell Enjolras how he isn’t surprised to hear that he doesn’t intend to start a family soon. He doesn’t tell him he feels the same way. Instead, he closes the goat house door back up, sliding the latch back into place. The two men move away and start making their way back to the main alley.

“How did you get so good with goats?” Enjolras asks as they follow the turn of the path they’re on, mindless of where it takes them. For the first time in his life, Enjolras is wandering, and he doesn't hate it. The gravel crunches under their feet, Paris is quiet beyond the fences of the Jardin, and Grantaire is far better company than he’d like to admit. It feels peaceful, the fresh evening air keeping him alert and disinclined to hurry home. 

The Jardin du Luxembourg is often the only detour he allows himself to take — it would be faster to walk home by the boulevard Saint-Michel, but he likes the stillness of a public park after sunset, especially after a bustling day at the Musain, where breaks are scarce and tranquility even rarer. 

Grantaire shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I grew up around a lot of ‘em. They’re like us, you know. Spend time with them and you’ll know them, learn to recognise mannerisms and tells for their moods and all that. The same goes for pretty much any animal. Like I said— a lot like humans.” 

Enjolras hums. They’ve reached the fountain, the main attraction the Jardin has that wasn’t exclusively designed for five to seven-year-olds. It’s quiet now, the faucets likely turned off by one of the gatekeepers. Grantaire can feel the atmosphere has shifted somehow, although he can’t quite pinpoint what has changed — it feels heavier, as if they have crossed into a territory neither of them wander into often. 

“Oh, good,” Grantaire says as he takes a seat on the edge of the fountain, in an effort to lighten the mood. His hand has already found the water and he plays with it absent-mindedly. “Somewhere to rest my weary bones.” 

Enjolras stands, lost in thought, his eyes vague. “How was your childhood?” 

Grantaire stills, redirecting his gaze from the fountain to Enjolras. He isn’t one to ask questions unless they have to do with logistics or human rights, so Grantaire’s gut feeling was right. There is something different. “My childhood?” 

Enjolras doesn’t take his question back like Grantaire expects him to, though. Instead, he nods. “I know you grew up different than the rest of us.” 

Grantaire huffs. “Yeah. I spent most of my time outside, if that’s what you mean. Didn’t have much of a relationship with books at all, unlike you. I liked horses and was an expert at getting lost; I always found my way back, though,” he adds, remembering one particular time he did not, in fact, find his way back.

Aurèle Grantaire is the fifth and last son of a fairly well-off _Camarguaise_ family, and consequently grew up free of the strict and thorough education that had been dispensed to his older siblings. As his family duties were scarce, Grantaire spent most of his childhood days between the estate’s stables and the half-destroyed abbey nearby, often risking his neck climbing its uneven stones to reach the very top. He liked the view from up there, the glistening Rhône on one side, the verdant Alpilles on the other. 

“I miss it sometimes,” he says, his voice lowered. “I miss the expanses of land, and the horses. We’re all stacked on top of each other here. There’s life, but it’s filthy. Now, don’t get me wrong— I like filthy, I like the crowds. I just happen to like my salt flats and stallions so much more.” 

Grantaire looks out at the dark park, memories of his childhood in the South flooding in. The first time he rode a horse, he was five, and he’d been terrified even though he’d tried his best not to show it. Looking back, he doesn’t think he was very successful at it. He can recall carving his name into one of the abbey’s stones and being told by children of the neighbouring village that it meant he’d be cursed by the Devil for the rest of his life. He remembers throwing his curtains open early in the morning and seeing the sun rise over the hills; how quiet the sleeping household was. He doesn’t get that kind of quiet here. 

“I used to think Paris was decrepit when I came here as a child,” Enjolras says, sitting down next to him. “The streets, the people— nothing about it was as grand as what my father had told me,” he goes on, eyebrows creasing in remembrance. “There was this man, this beggar, once. He was missing an eye and most of his teeth, he— he asked my father for money, and my father ignored him. Like he wasn’t even there. I hadn’t seen him treat anyone like that before, like they were invisible.” Enjolras takes a deep breath, his mouth turning into a hard line. “There was something wrong here, so many people without a roof, without a crumb to eat. All that poverty when I’d spent so much time learning about the King, all of his palaces, his residences, his seemingly endless riches. That was wrong, but it wasn’t Paris’ fault. It was the King’s. He was leaving his capital to rot after everything it had gone through. Everything the _people_ had gone through.” 

For the first time in a long time, Grantaire keeps quiet after Enjolras stops talking, and this time it isn’t because he’s asleep or too drunk to string a sentence together. He’s quiet because he realises that this, this is where it all started. Where Enjolras found his fire. 

“I’m here now,” Enjolras adds, his voice softer than Grantaire’s ever heard it, and maybe it’s because they’ve never been surrounded by such calm. “And that’s why I refuse to back down. I miss home, too, from time to time, but I know there’s more at stake than myself. There’s an entire city, an entire country. Millions of men and women to fight for. Sunday roasts and my seat at the family table can wait; France can’t.” 

What he doesn’t say, is that there is one thing he misses a little more than he can bear. That particular thing is the Lyonnais _Fête des Lumières_ , the Festival of Lights, which would have his entire family light candles and keep the flames going for four days in early December each year. Since his arrival in Paris, he has kept the tradition and set a candle on his windowsill every single winter. The season is dark, cold and humid up North, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. The windowsill flame is a meagre but essential compensation, providing both light and nostalgia in equal amounts. 

They sit in silence for a little while more, each lost in their own past, until Grantaire feels a shiver travel up his spine. Night has well and truly set in, its accompanying chill nipping at his fingers, nose and ears. He stands up, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to warm them up. 

“I think it’s time for me to go,” he says. “Before I turn into an icicle for the goats to nibble on.” 

That makes Enjolras chuckle, and he stands up, too. “That’s a good idea. I don’t know what time it is, but it must be late.” 

A slight hesitation hangs in the air as Grantaire wonders which way is the fastest to reach home. He knows Enjolras lives south of the Jardin, whereas he lives north of it, near the Seine; only nighttime makes it so much more complicated to know the cardinal directions— not that he typically follows those, either. Grantaire’s orientation skills are a point of contention among Les Amis, some of which believing in his innate capacity to find his way back to places, others dismissing it as pure luck. 

“I’ll walk out of the park with you,” he tells Enjolras after having decided that he’d rather not leave it up to luck tonight, especially since he is sorely missing a piece of clothing important to his general well-being.

To his surprise, Enjolras doesn’t try to get out of it. “Okay. It’s good for me, too,” he explains. “Gives any potential stray goat a moving target that isn’t me.” 

Grantaire laughs. “If you spot an angry goat, throw your folder up in the air, and run. I’ll run in the opposite direction; that ought to confuse it.” 

Enjolras nods, a small smile on his lips. “I’ll keep that in mind. Let’s just get to the entrance and get out of here.” 

And they do, faster than either of them expected to and without any goat encounters; Enjolras knows the way, even in the dark. They must wake the nightwatchman, because the gates slam shut as soon as they’re out, the sound accompanied by a string of muffled swear words. Grantaire snorts and looks around, taking a few steps to look at the closest street sign. _Rue de l’Ouest_. That isn’t a familiar one. He turns back to Enjolras. 

“We’re south of the Jardin, aren’t we?” 

Enjolras responds by the positive, which makes Grantaire sigh. Having to go around the Jardin instead of back through it means a half-hour walk home, and, if he’s lucky, he’ll only be missing one finger by then. 

“You could come with me,” Enjolras suggests tentatively, pulling Grantaire out of his thoughts.

He looks at Enjolras, blinking in surprise, and wonders if he heard the sentence right. “What?” 

Enjolras’ face is serious beneath the light of the lamppost, but the slight fiddling of his thumb on the corner of his portfolio betrays him. “There’s enough space for you to stay at mine for a night. It would spare you the walk back.” 

It’s a statement, not a question, and Grantaire’s stomach does a strange flip at the idea of seeing Enjolras’ living quarters; it isn’t an experience that many of Les Amis can say they’ve had, despite them knowing each other for so long. He also knows that if he protests, Enjolras won’t press on. So Grantaire doesn’t say no. 

“Okay,” he says, painfully aware of how one misplaced word could shatter the opportunity to spend more time with him. “Please, lead the way.” 

Enjolras nods stiffly and starts down rue de l’Ouest, his shoulders squared. He doesn’t glance back, the easy stance he had relaxed into earlier now nowhere to be seen. Grantaire follows quietly, his hands deep in his pockets. He tells himself it’s to protect them from the cold, but considering the warmth spreading in his chest, he probably doesn’t really need it. 

Enjolras lives close by, in a little street right off boulevard Raspail. His place isn’t big; it’s a bed, a desk strewn with papers and tracts, a chair at the desk. Still, it has something that Grantaire’s room, while similar in form, lacks. Enjolras’ room feels lived in; it’s easy enough to picture him hunched over his desk, reviewing one of the flyers penned by Combeferre and illustrated by Jehan, or sitting by the windowsill, dreamily watching the rain fall over the city. Contrastingly, Grantaire’s room feels like he’s always on the verge of leaving with no intention of ever coming back. He doesn’t spend much time in it either way, often preferring the literal and metaphorical warmth of cafés and other tavern-like establishments to his own room. 

Enjolras walks up to his desk and sets the folder down before pulling his jacket off, leaving it on the back of the chair. Grantaire stands in the entrance, staring at the jacket, unsure as to what to do or what to say. He can feel the growing tension in the room and his heart verges on leaping out of his chest, and he doesn’t know if it’s a good thing at all.

Enjolras stands there, both of them silent for a beat. He picks at his fingernails, a nervous habit he’s picked up since the Place Saint-Michel days. He takes a deep breath. 

“I know you doubt me,” he says suddenly, his eyes traveling to Grantaire’s face. “I know you don’t believe in much, that you don’t want to. I want you to know that if I told you all of that earlier, it wasn’t in an effort to convince you. I’ve long given up on that, and I’m still not sure why you come to the Musain every day— Combeferre tells me you’re a creature of habit, and maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re simply there because of the ale and the routine, but I’m not always so sure.” 

Grantaire feels a shudder travel down his limbs, and this time he knows he can’t blame it on the cold. 

“I know you think our cause is futile,” Enjolras goes on, a tremor in his voice that he tries his best to conceal. “But I can’t afford to throw it away because of you. You sit and you talk back and you’re drunk and insufferable most of the time, but then there are — moments like these. Moments where I see you for more than just someone who argues for the hell of it. That’s what you want, isn’t it? I can tell. You want people to think you’re inconsistent and aimlessly argumentative, but you’re not as good at keeping up appearances as you think you are. You stop being like that in those moments, the ones where you miss your home and befriend animals and are so terribly, so wonderfully human. And it’s scary.” His jaw is clenched, as are his fists. “It’s scary because it means I can’t dismiss this feeling in my stomach as irrational and capricious or as a passing, contradictory folly. It means it’s founded, Aurèle. It’s founded and it grows stronger every single time I look at you. It terrifies me.” 

He swallows with difficulty and casts his gaze downward, sucking in a breath. “This— this isn’t something I’m used to. I’m supposed to know how to deal with things. Be steadfast, steady. Grounded. I knew I wasn’t doing something wise when I left that jacket on you. I knew it would stir something up.” 

He doesn’t say that maybe, in some remote part of his mind, away from all rational thinking and leading responsibilities, he had wanted to stir something up. Admitting that, however, would take far more strength than he feels he has. 

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met,” Grantaire blurts out, still processing everything Enjolras just said, realising he hasn’t been the only one picking up on behavioural subtleties. It seems that Enjolras is just as attentive, albeit for different reasons. Or perhaps it is the same reason. “Ever since Saint-Michel, ever since the first time I ever saw you. I thought you were an angel, you know. And then we shook hands; you were there, you were real, you looked me in the eye and asked me if I’d join you.” He chuckles, almost as though the question sounds absurd in retrospect. “Of course I’d join you. I knew from the moment you said your name that I would’ve followed you anywhere.” 

Enjolras stands in the middle of the room, still as a statue, his eyes searching Grantaire’s face as though he can’t quite believe he’s here.

“You’re right in saying I don’t believe in much,” Grantaire continues, a dangerously self-deprecating smile on his face. “I don’t have a God, a cause or a people to believe in; nothing has given me reason to. These things are too big for a man like me to pour his trust into. Who am I to believe in something as titanic as an all-powerful God?” He takes a deep breath, levelling his eyes with Enjolras’. "But I believe in you, Gabriel; you have the name of an angel and the heart of a man. I’ll believe in you with all of my being, if only you’ll let me.” 

He falls silent and, after a moment, takes a tentative step towards Enjolras, who remains unmoving. One could almost think he hasn’t heard a word of Grantaire’s speech if it wasn’t for the deep line between his brows— proof of his trying to piece the puzzle together, an attempt at figuring what all of the words pronounced in this room meant for them, once they were all spoken and understood. 

He seems to figure it out soon enough, though, because it all happens in an instant. Before he knows it, Grantaire finds himself wrapped in the tightest embrace he’s ever known; he can feel Enjolras’ heart beating against his chest, feel his face buried in his neck, the blood pulsing through his veins. It’s his turn to blink in disbelief as he carefully circles his arms round Enjolras’ shoulders and holds him as close as he can, amazed. He lets out a sigh and closes his eyes, going still until he feels Enjolras draw back, instantly aware of their proximity once again. Enjolras doesn’t pull away completely, though— his eyes search Grantaire’s, looking for permission for something he doesn’t dare speak. It isn’t hard to tell what he’s looking for, now that he isn’t playing his usual game of facades anymore; Grantaire, gently grabbing onto his shirtfront, pulls him down until their mouths meet. 

It’s tentative at first, a strange mélange of uncertainty and reprieve, like the very first breath of fresh air after an eternity underwater; lung-scorching, yet undoubtedly life-saving. They find each other; Enjolras brings his hand to Grantaire’s cheek as Grantaire pulls him closer still, deepening the kiss as their bodies fit together. They stumble across the room and soon Enjolras finds himself with his back pressed up against the wall with his hands in Grantaire’s hair, unable to draw away from his mouth; either way, he doesn’t want to. He wants to belong to him in his entirety, unashamedly, even if it’s just for a moment. For a thousand moments. 

Only soon, too soon, Grantaire breaks the kiss and pulls back, his eyes bright and hair wickedly tousled.

“I’ve decided,” he says, a little breathless from the encounter, a crooked smile almost splitting his face in two. “Your kisses are holy, too.” 


End file.
